The Boy's Gone Home
by SirusPolaris
Summary: [One-shotSongfic] Jet POV. You don't see many Jet-arias out there, so I thought I'd try my hand at Jet's musings after The Real Folk Blues 2.


A/N: Simply for the love of the song, I had to do it. Besides, I've never written a Jet-aria before, and it seemed like an interesting challenge. I hope I did all right keeping him IC, but whatever. Anyways, listen to the song, it's called 'The Boy's Gone Home' by Jason Mraz. Very melancholic. You'll like it. I promise.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or its characters. Or the song by Jason Mraz. Or a car. Sad my life is.   
  
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*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The boy's gone. The boy's gone home.  
  
The boy's gone. The boy's gone home.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It wasn't like I hadn't seen it coming. Anyone who knew Spike at all knew he was a walking time bomb. A natural disaster on legs.   
  
But even so, even after all the times I told myself he'd end up blowing himself to bits on one of his suicide missions, I was completely unprepared when it really happened.   
  
Not to sound maudlin or anything, but I wasn't ready to hear the communicator ring, and Bob telling me the nasty details. I wasn't ready to check bodies at the morgue. I wasn't ready for the dead silence plaguing the corridors. And I wasn't ready for the drastic change his death would bring in our lives.   
  
He was a constant, and to see such finality in his death was more like a slap in the face than anything else. What else could happen in a world where Spike Spiegel could die? I mean, he'd survived some pretty tough shit before, stuff that most normal human beings wouldn't. And because of that undeniable fact, the end result of his last crusade was a violent shock to the system.   
  
I like to think of human beings as creatures of routine, slaves to the system, you dig? I, myself, am a prime example of how dependant we Homo sapiens are on regularity. For about a year I woke up, made breakfast, listened to the brats complain about the food, trimmed my bonsai while Faye and Spike went bounty hunting, then fixed their ships for free when they come home empty handed. I'm an old man, damn it. I need all the solid days I can get my hands on.  
  
So it's no shock to say that Spike fucked up our homely little system with his tragic death wish.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
And what will happen to a face in the crowd when it finally gets too crowded?  
  
And what will happen to the origin of sound after all the sounds have sounded?  
  
Well I hope I never have to see that day,  
  
But by God, I know it's heading our way.  
  
So I better be happy now that the boy's gone home.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It wasn't like all time stopped and we fell to our knees crying at the unfairness of it all; why did he have to go, he can't be gone, damn the Gods for his misfortune-- you know how it goes. It was more like time sped up, actually, rolling together into one huge block of events that all seemed to blur together. Just a jumble of shit too tangled and complicated to comprehend.   
  
I don't recall the exact date that Faye left, but I know for sure that it couldn't have been more than a few days after the event. For a heartless woman, she was sure torn up about the whole ordeal. Cried for hours on end and wouldn't leave her room for meals, or bounties, I'm not even sure if she left to use the shower (Wonders never cease).   
  
She was mad at me for a while, of that much I'm sure. "Why can't you grieve like a normal person?" she asked. "Yell, cry, break things, just do *something*."  
  
Kinda reminded me that I probably should be angry, or sad, or something. . . but the only thing I managed to do in light of Spike's passing was getting pretty damned sloshed one night.   
  
Anyways, it's probably better that Faye's gone. At least now I don't have to deal with her hysterics. Damn woman should have known better than to fall for such a suicidal pessimist. Especially one as melodramatic as Spike.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
And what becomes of a day to those who rage against it?  
  
And who will sum up the phrase for all left standing 'round in it?  
  
Well I suppose we'll all make our judgment calls,  
  
We'll walk it alone, stand up tall, and then march to the fall,  
  
So we better be happy now that we'll all go home.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
And so the story goes.   
  
Who knew that he was such a major rock in our lives? The most unpredictable rock I ever knew, anyways. I mean, who would have guessed that *he'd* be the one to break us up? I always figured it'd be some maniac bounty that'd up and kill everyone one day. Or maybe Faye one day would finally irritate Spike to the point where he'd completely snap and do it himself.   
  
Guess it doesn't matter anymore, does it? They're all gone anyways.  
  
  
  
Like I said, it wasn't like we all weren't expecting it to happen. I guess we were all hoping that maybe it wouldn't. You know, maybe he'd change from the aloof bastard he was and actually open up, get attached to us.  
  
Heh. We would have had better luck trying to convince Ein to become a cat.  
  
But that was just how he was. A stubborn son of a bitch. The way I see it, we're all just drops of mercury. Try as you might to get the individual droplets to form one big droplet, you simply can't. Separate from the moment the large drop is shattered.   
  
Anyways, it's how we are. How he was. The kid had built walls around himself thicker than those of planetary mints. I think that was what did him in, in the end. Letting his secrets fester inside of him-- it wasn't healthy.   
  
Not like he cared, or anything. Spike was too cool to care. Fearless even in the face of inevitable death, so my buddies at ISSP tell me.   
  
The day after what had to have been the beginning of the apocalypse, the articles came flowing in from nearly every connection I had-- recounting the grizzly glory of it all. Guess they figured I needed to know, though I avoided Mars for days and orbited forlornly, as if pretending the planet didn't exist would erase the slaughter that Spike started. I have no idea where they came up with the information, and I wasn't sure that I was grateful, but it did fill in a lot of gaps.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
Be so happy with the way you are,   
  
Just be happy that you've made it this far,  
  
Go on be happy now,  
  
Please be happy now. . .  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Chalk outlines littered the building like morose graffiti, not a soul left alive-- leave it to Spike to throw one hell of a tantrum. If there's one thing I've learned in all my years knowing Spike, it's not to piss him off. The decimated Red Dragons Headquarters is solid proof of that.   
  
Anyways, the whole thing was a real blood bath, but I expected as much. However, there was one thing that I still wonder about sometimes. . .   
  
According to my sources, his body was found crumpled at the base of the stairs, heading back towards where he parked the Swordfish. God only knows where he was trying to go while tripping over his own innards, but something in me hopes that he was heading home.   
  
But who am I kidding? After that mawkish farewell on the Bebop, we were all positive that he was leaving for good.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Because this, this is something else,  
  
You know that this, this is something else. . .  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It came as no surprise to me that Spike single-handedly destroyed an entire syndicate; when he left, he looked like he could bring down the world.   
  
I never did find out the details behind his rage, but it had something to do with a woman, as most troubles do. This woman must have been something special, though, to hook a guy like Spike so deep. That man was impenetrable.  
  
Whoever she was, she had to have been a tough broad, cruel too, to make Spike such a nostalgic bastard.   
  
  
  
Sometimes I wonder if he actually had human fears, like the rest of us. I mean, the kid *had* no caution. No finesse. Nope, he'd charge in with guns blazing, blowing messy holes in everything and getting the job done with as many injuries he could collect and sustain. He probably kept track, too, the punk. He faced everything with reckless abandon-- Spike didn't burn bridges, he blew them up.   
  
  
  
We all saw it happening, saw demise looming up ahead like a black cloud, but no one said anything. It wasn't our place. I mean, Spike and I were close, but there were still territories where neither of us dared trespass. One of the huge forbidden landscapes was the past. What was past *stayed* in the past. It was a system that worked quite well for us. . . up until recently, that is. We stayed out of each other's business if we could help it.   
  
So when he wanted to go, far be it from me to stop him. So when he wanted to go, I let him. I wasn't his dad or anything (though Spike could easily be classified as an overgrown child), and I wasn't going to lecture him on how rash and stupid he was being. He was a big boy-- he could do whatever the hell he wanted. And despite how I ranted and threatened and claimed I wouldn't, I would always be there to back him up if he needed. We were partners. Allies. Comrades.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I tried to live my life and live it so well,  
  
When it's all over is it heaven or is it hell?  
  
I better be happy now that no one can tell,  
  
Nobody knows. . .  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I guess it's how the story ends. You know, one huge grand finale, and then it's over. I can't imagine Spike going out in any way less dramatic.   
  
The crew left, all bonds of camaraderie completely broken as we went our separate ways. That's it. Finito. The End.  
  
Often these days, I find myself asking whatever super-human universal gods be listening: What the hell am I supposed to do now?  
  
The story's over, the hero's dead, but what of his companions?   
  
It's like I've spent so much time around the same people for so long, now that they're out of my life I don't know what to do with myself.   
  
Or maybe I'm just getting pathetic in my old age.  
  
Doesn't matter, anyways. Most days I waste my time doing stupid menial chores-- repairing the Hammerhead, fixing the shower, trimming my bonsai into mulch. . . But I haven't gone near the kitchen. No one to cook for anyways.   
  
Strange. Who would have thought that Jet Black, the Black Dog, Tough-As-Old-Boot-Leather Jet Black, would be reduced to such a domestic way of life? Fix things, pondering old partners; I sound like I'm 900 years old and looking for my teeth.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
I'm gonna be happy with the way that I am,  
  
I'm gonna be happy with all that I stand for,  
  
I'm gonna be happy now, because the boy's going home.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
But I guess it's just how things played out, you know? You gotta call 'em when you got 'em, and let the chips fall as they may. Spike laid down his cards when he should have folded. . . but hey, when you gamble, eventually you lose.  
  
But who am I to judge how well or poorly things ended? As far as I see it, this is exactly what Spike wanted. He wanted out, and for him, there was only one way to get there. Happy for him, that's what I am. At least now his melancholic depression is over.  
  
I have to laugh at myself now. I've lost track of the hour, and it's far too late for an old man to be awake and thinking so heavily on dead men. But Spike'll do that to you, you know? Make you forget for a while and keep you riveted to one spot just wondering how the hell he operated.   
  
The ship seems so empty, and quiet. They all left to continue their lives without each other; hopefully they're all satisfied with the places they've run to. I feel so old-- I can only imagine that what I'm feeling is akin to how my old man felt when his kids grew up and left.   
  
Hah. Me? A father? Get real.  
  
But you know what they say. C'est la vie-- that's life. I guess that's all there is to it. The universe doesn't stop spinning just because you've hit tough shit.   
  
And despite how horrible things were when the idiot left, we're all okay. Keep on truckin', s'all we can do.  
  
You know, it reminds me of something I heard in an old Earth movie-- really old, probably older than Faye. I hardly watch the Vid-screen anymore, but something about all this reminiscing strikes me as ironic.   
  
I mean, living in the past is what started this fucked up tragedy anyways, right?  
  
So, play it once, Sam. . . for old time's sake.   
  
One more time, Spike.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The boy's gone home. . .  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


End file.
